


The Thought That Counts

by Kass



Series: Stargate Atlantis fanworks [42]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Time, Flash Fic, M/M, Strange New Worlds Challenge, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-26
Updated: 2008-09-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:12:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kass/pseuds/Kass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That was when the jumper hit the invisible wall and started to plummet. Fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thought That Counts

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "strange new worlds and alien geographies" challenge at sga_flashfiction. Many thanks to Lamardeuse and to Terri for beta!

"This is fruitless," Rodney said, for the third time.

"We don't know that, McKay." John was checking long-range sensors, piloting them over the vast dark forests of PQ4-JT9, a planet about which neither Teyla nor Ronon knew anything at all.

"And doesn't it ever bug you that so many planets in the Pegasus galaxy look exactly like Earth?"

John made a noncommittal sound.

"Seriously. Look at this. Conifer forests over granite shield."

"Looks like Canada, you should feel right at home."

"Thank you, Colonel, I appreciate your concern." It actually did look oddly like Canada, from the air.

"Doesn't look like Sateda," Ronon offered.

"And we have encountered planets that are strikingly foreign even to me," Teyla chimed in.

"Sentient mist," John reminded him. "Not very...Earthy."

"Yes, yes, fine," Rodney said, irritably. "But this one doesn't look like much of anything. There's no evidence of timbering or mining, even, much less industry." He wanted to make it back to Atlantis before lunch, and this really didn't look like the kind of planet where they were going to find a spare ZPM. "And the scanners don't show significant power usage anywhere on the continent, so I don't see why we're bothering —"

"You're the one who thought this place sounded interesting."

"It was one line in the database; it sounded more...intriguing than it actually is."

"I told Elizabeth we'd be gone all day, maybe overnight; I'm not turning around now just because you found a good reason to go home."

"Chocolate mousse," Rodney pleaded. "If Zelenka gets there before we do, I can guarantee —"

"Hang on, there's some kind of reading I can't identify." John furrowed his forehead at the display hovering in front of him, squinting a little. "Hold that thought, I want to get a closer look."

That was when the jumper hit the invisible wall and started to plummet. Fast.

"Shit," Rodney yelled, clutching his armrests as they careened at an angle toward the grass. "Why aren't the inertial dampers —"

"I can't get them back online," John said, far too calmly. "Brace yourselves for impact."

The ground rushed up far too fast, and then there was a sickening thud.

* * *

Just surveying the damage made Rodney feel glum.

"How bad is it?" Teyla, peering over his shoulder.

"How bad do you think it is? We're stranded on an alien planet where they probably haven't even invented the alkaline battery. And before you ask, no, I don't think I can fix this, not without —"

"Alkaline battery?" Teyla had that tone in her voice that meant he was speaking gibberish but she was too polite to call him on it.

"Earth reference, ignore it," John said, breezily. "McKay, we're _always_ stranded on an alien planet."

"How did this get to be my life?" Rodney didn't really expect an answer, so he wasn't surprised when nobody offered one.

"Looked like there was habitation, that way," John continued, shrugging into a daypack. "Let's go."

Rodney didn't like leaving the jumper there uncloaked, but it wasn't like they had much choice. It was busted, anyway; not like anyone could do anything with it. So he shouldered his own pack and followed.

The woods looked like...woods. Kind of anticlimactic. This place was chill and damp and felt like the Pacific Northwest—enormous trees, forest floor carpeted with needles and moss. Nothing in any way interesting, at all.

Then they reached the clearing.

The vineyards stretched for miles: beautiful tidy rows of vines, neatly staked. That wasn't what was weird. What was weird was the people working in the fields in oddly-synchronized unison. They wore bright flowy clothes that didn't look very practical for farming but matched exactly the kind of thing Rodney had grown used to seeing. (Had there been some kind of galaxy-wide fashion bulletin?) But the way they were moving—bending, weeding—in perfect harmony was seriously creepy.

"Hello," John called, and every head in the fields popped up at once.

"Greetings," Teyla added. The locals looked confused.

"We've had some transportation trouble—we're not from around here," John added, unnecessarily. "Could someone maybe lend us a hand?"

The farmers just stared at them, faces baffled, and then, as one, returned to their work.

"I have a bad feeling about this," Rodney said, darkly. He didn't expect a response to that, either.

* * *

The village was weirdly tidy, like the fields. There were plenty of people, but no one spoke a word. The market featured the usual assortment of primitive crap: fruits, baskets, homespun, leather—but the only noises were items being moved, stacked, sorted.

A boy drove a big blue water buffalo analogue down the street, its cart laden with barrels, in silence.

"Excuse me," John said to a market girl selling some kind of apple things. She inclined her head and looked at him, puzzled. She stared as he said, "Listen, we're not from around here, but we'd really like some help," and before he could finish the sentence she had turned back to her wares, holding one up with a smile as though she were hawking it to everyone in the square.

"This isn't right," Ronon said, arms folded.

"It does seem strange," Teyla agreed.

"You ever," John began.

"Nothing like this, no," Teyla said.

That was when Rodney figured it out. "Oh. Oh, of course. I can't believe I didn't see it sooner."

"You want to let us in on the joke?" John sounded a little bit testy. Rodney guesssed it was hard to use your charm on people who just looked at you like deer in the headlights and then returned to their tasks.

"They don't understand us because we don't speak their language." When their faces remained blank, he rolled his eyes and clarified. "They're telepaths."

* * *

Nobody wanted to believe him.

"Why can't they read our minds, then," John said.

"I have no sense of being probed," Teyla added.

Ronon just looked at him like he was crazy. Which was basically how he always looked at Rodney.

But eventually they had to acknowledge that he was right. Or at least that in the absence of a better explanation, Rodney's theory would have to serve.

Children seemed less alarmed by them than adults were. One of them walked alongside Rodney for a while, beaming. ("Great," he said to the galaxy at large. "Why am I always the kid-magnet?" Teyla seemed to think it was cute, and John was obviously entertained, which did not mollify him one bit.)

But then a little girl came running up, cocked her head, and took Teyla by the hand. She dragged them to a teenaged boy who was whittling in a corner behind a house. Tow-headed and freckled, and squinting at his wood carving like it was the most important thing in the world. The little girl gave Teyla a meaningful glance.

So Teyla began again. "Excuse me," she said, and the boy looked up, startled and confused.

"Not this again," Rodney muttered.

"We have come here by accident and need help to return home," she said.

The boy stared. Opened his mouth, and closed it again. "You," he said, finally, in a voice as rusty as old nails. "Speak," he finished, in wonderment.

"We could say the same about you," Rodney added, _sotto voce_. Teyla threw him a look that said "not now," which he ignored.

"Hi," John said, voice fervent with relief. "I'm Colonel John Sheppard, and we could really use your help."

* * *

"You people haven't used speech in a thousand years?" Rodney was reeling.

Talan looked uncertain. "Perhaps longer."

"I don't even know what to do with this." Reading minds was one thing, but the thought of life entirely without talking made Rodney feel vaguely queasy.

"Among your people, how many share your gift?" Teyla asked.

"Thakians who speak?" Talan shook his head. "I...very few. Perhaps none."

"Good thing we found you, then," John said.

"Yes, absolutely, this must be our lucky day," Rodney said. "Can we get on with figuring out how to get off this rock?"

John rephrased that. "We need to repair our flying machine."

"It's not going to be fixable, not unless there's a secret stash of jumper parts somewhere in that market." Frankly, Rodney would be surprised if there were anything on this planet that resembled modern technology. Well, aside from the shield generator, wherever that was.

"Don't be so negative," John said.

"Flying machine?" Talan repeated, looking vaguely dazed.

"Yes, it's a machine that flies," Rodney offered, unhelpful. This conversation was getting old and he was really not in the mood to be explaining Ancient technology to this gangly kid.

"It's how we came here," Teyla added, gently.

Talan just shook his head. "I have never seen such a thing."

"Perhaps there is an elder in your community who has," Teyla offered.

Talan looked relieved to be given an excuse to leave. "I will... inquire," he said. "Come." He took them to a tavern, ordered them drinks without saying a word, and disappeared again.

A cluster of people gathered around them, gawking openly. It didn't seem hostile; just...uncomfortable. Ronon's hand stayed near his holster.

"This is pretty weird," John admitted, taking a long swig.

"Even for the Pegasus galaxy," Rodney agreed, "and that's saying something." The ale actually wasn't bad. Everyone seemed to be drinking it, including children, so hopefully it wasn't very alcoholic.

"It's a shame Dr. Beckett isn't here," Teyla mused. "He would be fascinated."

"It's possible they don't even use language as we know it," Rodney said. "For all we know, they think in pictures, some kind of—gestalt-images, rather than words."

"True, we have seen no writing," Teyla agreed.

"I'm guessing their vocal cords have atrophied," Rodney said. "They may be vestigial, at this point. Something happens when you go too long without talking—it's an alarming prospect, really."

"Huh," Ronon said. His eyes were amused.

Rodney drank more beer.

* * *

Night was close to falling by the time Talan returned. "Flying machine is a problem," he said.

"Figures," Rodney said.

"But I have arranged lodging," Talan said, "and tomorrow, you meet Morgan." He beckoned and they followed, winding their way out of the tavern and onto the street.

"He's somebody in charge?" John asked.

"Noble," Talan explained. "Has a...device. You can speak to your home."

"Long-range communication, interesting," Rodney said. "Elizabeth's going to to be very glad to hear from us." And maybe she can get us the hell out of here.

"Thank you," John said. They had arrived at a whitewashed two-story house. "We're staying here tonight?"

Talan nodded. As if on cue, a boy appeared. "He will take you to your rooms," Talan said, and inclined his head slightly in farewell.

"Right," John said.

"Many thanks," Teyla added, smoothly. "Please tell the innkeepers that we appreciate their hospitality."

Talan left, silently, and without a word the kid led them up a flight of stairs and down a hall. He beckoned Ronon into one room; Teyla into the next; and when they reached the third door, he opened it and John walked in.

Rodney waited. The kid just stood there.

"Okay, come on, where's my room," Rodney asked. Of course the kid didn't reply.

"I'm tired and my feet hurt and I'd like to go to bed," Rodney said, which didn't do a damn thing.

John came back to the door. "Something wrong?"

"Kid won't take me to my room," Rodney said.

But the kid just smiled broadly, and nodded his head toward the door.

"Maybe this is your room, not mine," John said, and started to leave, but the kid made a gesture that obviously meant 'stay put.'

"Where is my room," Rodney said, slowly and clearly.

The kid gestured to John's room again. They were at some kind of impasse.

"It has been a very, _very_ long day," Rodney said, with feeling. "Please, for the love of God, take me to my room."

"Just get in here, McKay," John said, sounding faintly exasperated. "This place is huge, there's plenty of space."

Rodney took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. "Fine. Okay. Thank you." He shouldered his way past John and resolutely didn't look at the bed. The one, single bed. At least it was enormous.

"Drop your bag, and then come on: we're going to find some food," John said.

Rodney groaned, but complied.

* * *

"Did you rest well?" Teyla asked.

"Yes, yes, fine," Rodney said, hastily. He was adamantly not thinking about how close he'd come to making a pass at John. They were seriously going to have to get off this planet; he wasn't sure he could bear another night of sharing a bed. "Sorry I'm late."

"Let's hit the road," John said. "Morgan's waiting."

Morgan was a tall man with vaguely Asiatic features. His robes were more lustrous than anything else they'd seen, and he moved like someone accustomed to being waited on.

"I have...explained. Your predicament." Talan said. He still looked like speaking was a mental effort, but his voice was less raspy than it had been.

"Thank you," John said, and then turned to Morgan, wearing his most ingratiating smile. "I understand you can help us phone home?"

Morgan inclined his head and a servant appeared from the next room, bearing a rectangular box with a bronzed patina, faintly embossed with characters Rodney couldn't quite make out. Morgan held it for a moment and it illuminated so brightly it was almost hard to look at. He handed it to John and the light dimmed but remained steady.

"How does it work?" John asked.

Talan exchanged a long glance with Morgan. "I don't know how to explain," he said, finally.

"Try just thinking of Atlantis," Rodney suggested. "Really hard."

"Click my heels three times?" John muttered.

Rodney stifled a laugh; he didn't feel like explaining the Wizard of Oz to Teyla and Ronon, much less to their weird telepathic hosts.

Sure enough, when John closed his eyes and concentrated, Elizabeth's face appeared. Rodney could see startlement in her eyes, and then relief. Her mouth started moving immediately, but there was no sound.

"Great," Rodney said. "We've got picture, that's a start. Think a little harder," but it was no use; no sound emerged.

"Write something down," John said, and fast as he could, Rodney fished a Moleskine notebook and waterproof pen out of his bag.

"Stranded," he wrote. "Jumper damaged. Planet of telepaths. Help?"

He handed it to John, who held it up in front of the screen. Elizabeth peered, and then her forehead cleared. She held up one finger, and then stepped away.

"She gets it," Rodney said, relieved. "Thank God. Somebody's going to get us out of this place. Oh, we need to tell them about the shield, we don't want Carson to fly right into the same —"

But his relief was short-lived. She came back with a printed note.

_Jumper 2 damaged on mainland. Will be some days. Try to fix yours, do some recon. Report again tomorrow, same channel._

"Okay," John said, enunciating clearly.

"Wait!" Rodney protested. "I don't have any idea what we can use to fix —"

But John was waving goodbye to Elizabeth, and the device went dark.

"Great," Rodney muttered. "I did mention that this is an impossible task, didn't I?"

John just grinned. "I have faith in your abilities," he said, loftily.

* * *

"Okay, here's the plan," John said. "Teyla, scope out the market and whatever women's spaces you can find. They may have knowledge the men can't access. Ronon, you're with me—I want to look for ZPMs."

"Here?" Rodney scoffed. "This hardly seems like a technologically advanced civilization —"

"Yeah, but that long-range communication device could have been Ancient," John argued. "There might be more interesting tech somewhere."

"And there was that shield," Teyla noted.

"Right," Rodney said. "Who could forget the shield our scanners couldn't parse, which you just had to get a closer look at, which crashed us out of a clear blue sky?"

John winced. It made Rodney feel a little bit guilty.

"I'll just trek back out to the jumper to assess the damage, shall I?" Rodney said, quickly.

"You do that," John said, and turned away, Ronon on his heels.

Rodney sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face. Fine, he'd go back to the crash site, as soon as he mustered the energy.

The thing was, he'd drunk more of that ale last night than he'd strictly intended, and he was paying for it today. "Oh, for a cup of coffee," he muttered to himself, wishing there were even a packet of instant in his knapsack. He walked slowly back past the tavern, fantasizing about Sumatra french roast.

He hardly noticed when one of the innkeeper's kids broke off from the pack that was washing dishes. But the kid ran after him, and what he was carrying made Rodney stop in his tracks: a little clay cup of what was almost certainly coffee. Close enough for government work, anyway; whatever this was, it was dark and bitter and clearly caffeinated.

"Thank you," he said, fervently—and then, remembering the kid couldn't hear or understand, closed his eyes and tried hard to think about gratitude. Then he drank the coffee in three gulps, and powered by its kick, headed back past the vineyards to where the jumper had fallen.

His first sight of the jumper gave him a start. It looked so forlorn there, one drive pod battered and the bottom of the jumper jammed against a hummock of rock.

"Hang in there," he murmured to it as he approached, and then felt ridiculous. Who talked to aircraft?

Pilots, that's who, and—well, he wasn't technically a pilot, but he could fly the jumper; had flown this very jumper before. Besides, Atlantean technology sometimes seemed nearly sentient. And it wasn't any weirder than talking to your electron microscope or your laptop.

All in all, the damage could have been worse. After a few hours, Rodney was pretty sure that only three panels were unfixable, and he could probably reroute a lot of the connections.

If he could only get the jumper into the air, all of this would be so much easier. If it were hovering a few feet above ground, he could pull the panels clear, switch things around—but there was no way. They couldn't get the jumper off the ground; that was the whole problem. Fine. He'd remove every crystal, check for breakage, replace what he could, and then see what kind of cob job was required.

It wasn't taxing work; he let his mind wander. And if it returned of its own volition to last night, he could let that slide...

* * *

John had been right; food was what Rodney had needed. They'd gone downstairs and walked, by the light of street torches, back to the tavern, where a girl in a turquoise tunic brought them bowls of some kind of savory stew and hunks of hard dark bread. And, well, a lot of ale. Which seemed like it might be a stronger brew than what they'd been given during the afternoon, but Rodney wasn't complaining. The girl had kept bringing it to them, and it wasn't like they had anything else to do, right?

Rodney had been on the verge of a crash before dinner—too short on sugar; it had been a ridiculous day—but once he'd gotten through half a bowl of stew, he felt better. And John had been in surprisingly good spirits. It was like a night off, actually. They were offworld, there was nothing they could do about any of the crap on their to-do lists, and they had an apparently endless supply of local beer. Life could be worse, right?

By the time they'd made their way back to their room, Rodney was a little tipsy. Which was maybe why, when John pulled off his shirt, Rodney's mouth went dry and his heart started to pound and he had to turn the other way, pretend to be fiddling with his knapsack. Because in his slightly drunken state, the sight of John Sheppard pushing his pants down off of his hips—and, wearing only dark boxers, peeling back the covers on their very large low platform bed—had made Rodney suddenly so desperately aroused he'd thought he might come just from the friction of his trousers.

Maybe there'd been something in that beer. Maybe it was an aphrodesiac? Because in that moment, all he'd wanted in the world was to pin John to the bed and make him come. With his mouth, with his hands, he didn't care; he just wanted it. So goddamned badly.

It wasn't like he'd never thought about it before, but he'd never thought about it with such ardent intention. He'd never been so close to actually reaching out and --

"I'll be back," Rodney had stammered, and awkwardly bolted for the bathroom at the end of the hall, where he'd taken himself in hand and come almost immediately, other hand braced against the door to make sure no one else tried to come in.

By the time he'd gotten back to the room, John was asleep. Rodney had slid into bed fully-clothed, and had slept hugging the edge of the mattress, which had done disastrous things to his back. By morning, when he woke, John was already gone, and Rodney --

...Rodney looked down at his hand, which was holding a crystal in mid-air. How long had he been spaced out?

Time to think about something more productive. And less dangerous. Like the jumper crash. He seized on that gratefully; it felt like a safe subject on which to ruminate.

This didn't seem like the kind of culture capable of comprehending, let alone powering, a shield of that strength. Something was going on here that wasn't quite right. What kind of shield had precipitated their crash? Why hadn't the jumper's scanners perceived major power usage? What the hell was going on?

* * *

"The shield," Rodney blurted, the minute John and Ronon and Teyla came into view. They were sitting under a tree beside their inn, and John was peeling one of the apple-things with his pocketknife.

Before Rodney could finish the thought, he had to stop and put his hands on his knees. He'd run most of the way from the crash site when the answer came to him, and he was badly out of breath.

"Whoa," John said, handing the knife and fruit to Teyla and getting up to put an arm around Rodney. "Stand up."

"Ow," Rodney wheezed.

"Bending over actually decreases your lung capacity," John pointed out, sanely. "C'mon."

It took a few minutes for Rodney's breathing to return to normal.

"Okay. What about the shield?"

"It's telepathic," Rodney said. "I know, it sounds crazy, but is it really any crazier than turning a jumper on and off with your brain?"

"I guess not," John said.

"Probably everybody here is helping to maintain it. They may not even know they're doing it—just giving a little bit of their processor time to it, unconsciously."

"You think they have the ATA gene?"

"I'm sure of it," Rodney said. "Look at how Morgan lit up that communication device! If they can communicate without words, if they can power that shield, they might be able to help us get the jumper off the ground if they all focus hard enough. In which case I could fix it, easy, less than an hour—if I could just get to the underside—"

"Great," Ronon said, around a mouthful of apple.

"Telepathy and telekinesis aren't the same thing," John objected.

"Just—trust me on this. I had a flash of insight. I'm right."

"You're always right, except when you're not."

Rodney didn't dignify that with a response.

"I wonder whether Talan can explain what we need," Teyla said, doubtfully. "He seems to find it difficult to communicate about their gift. It may be so foundational to their consciousness that they have difficulty thinking around it."

"That's just it," Rodney said. "I think we can communicate with them directly, if we focus on really simple requests—ideas, not syntax. This morning I wanted a cup of coffee, and I thought about it really hard, and —"

"Somebody brought you some?" Ronon, amused.

"More or less, yeah."

"Wonderful," Teyla said, beaming.

John didn't chime in. His face was pale and his mouth was tight.

"Colonel? Everything okay?"

John stood. "Yeah. Good work," he said, distantly, and walked away.

There was a pause. "Okay, then," Rodney said, disappointed. It wasn't like he needed affirmation, but—a guy could say thank-you, you know?

* * *

Rodney returned to the jumper to do the rest of the clean-up work on the circuitry, still vaguely irritated at Sheppard. Last night—he wasn't thinking about last night; he really wasn't—but before things had gotten dicey, when they were just having dinner and a few beers together, John had seemed so relaxed. Telling stories and laughing. It had made Rodney happy and wistful at the same time.

And now, when Rodney brought him a piece of good news—they might be able to collaborate with the locals on fixing the jumper; they could go home, before Elizabeth even had to figure out how to mount a rescue!—John just stalked away into the fields. What was up with that?

What had Rodney said, exactly? That when he focused on wanting something really badly, somebody brought it to him. What was so --

Oh. Oh, damn it, no. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

John had walked away because John had figured him out. Rodney was the reason the innkeeper had bunked them together; he must have been wanting it, somewhere deep down, when the kid went to find them rooms. He must have been longing for it, even more than he longed for coffee.

Hell, of course he longed for it more than he longed for coffee. For John to turn around one day and notice what was in front of him. To see a need in John's eyes that matched his own.

Rodney felt his shoulders slump. He set down the crystal in his hand and lay down on his back, staring at the ceiling of the jumper. "Fuck," he said, quietly miserable, to no one at all.

* * *

Dinner featured a lot of awkward silences, made more noticeable by the fact that no one else in the tavern was speaking.

"I'm pretty sure I can make the jumper operational in the morning," Rodney said, a little too brightly.

"I will seek out Talan and try to explain our needs," Teyla offered.

"Mental images are key—picture what we want them to do, don't think in words." As soon as the words left Rodney's mouth, he wanted to take them back. That was how he'd created this mess in the first place, wasn't it? His heart sank even further.

"I understand," Teyla said, seriously, apparently not noticing his discomfort at all.

Ronon was quiet, but what else was new. Killing Wraith, and looming in a menacing way, were among his strong suits; dinner conversation, not so much.

Usually that didn't matter. The four of them were good at this. Rodney blathered, John cracked finely-tuned lame jokes, Teyla was earnest, Ronon doled out words sparingly. But tonight it wasn't working. Rodney was talking too fast, Teyla was oblivious, and John—John was sitting stiffly, his face closed, his whole body projecting "keep away!" Which made Rodney feel like eleven kinds of jackass. Not only had it turned out there was no way in hell John would be interested, but he was obviously repulsed by the idea.

Somehow Rodney didn't have much appetite once that thought crossed his mind.

"I'm going to turn in," John said, abruptly, and rose.

Rodney pushed one bite of stew around his bowl with his bread, looked at Ronon and Teyla helplessly, and then took a deep breath and set his spine as straight as he could muster. "Good night," he said, and followed.

* * *

John looked surprised when Rodney let himself into their room, and for a split second Rodney thought he saw unhappiness in his face—before the military mask slipped back into place. Great: just great.

"I'm sorry." The words burst out of Rodney unplanned. He'd been trying to come up with some kind of speech, but evidently, faced with the disastrous mess he'd apparently made of the best working relationship he'd ever had, 'I'm sorry' was all he could manage.

"What?" Now John looked about as confused as the Thakians had.

Rodney swallowed hard. Maybe this would be easier if he couldn't see John's face. He sat down on the edge of the bed and fixed his eyes on his own hands, loosely steepled past his knees.

"This is my fault." The words came out quieter than he intended, which was maybe okay because there wasn't any other sound coming from anywhere. "I'm sorry I got us into this, this situation," he said, gesturing at the room, the single bed. "You have to believe me, I didn't—you weren't supposed to know." It wasn't supposed to happen like this, he added mentally. I always thought you would want me, in the end.

"To know what?" John didn't sound angry, but Rodney still didn't look at him. "Rodney."

Rodney pressed his lips shut. He'd done enough damage.

But his resolve to remain silent seemed matched by John's newfound resolve to speak. "Help me out, here," John said, and when Rodney didn't say anything, John knelt in front of him, forcing their eyes to meet. "What wasn't I supposed to know?"

"What I wanted," Rodney said, dully. John had obviously already figured it out; why this torture, unless he wanted to make sure Rodney felt absolutely, utterly miserable about it?

John took a deep breath, and Rodney steeled himself for whatever was coming. Accusations, probably, though on some level he was half-wishing John would just punch him in the face, because as much as that would hurt—and it would hurt like hell—at least it would break the tension. But John's hands, when they came up, rested tentatively on Rodney's thighs, just above the knee.

Rodney stared at them, dumbfounded.

John took another deep breath, and Rodney couldn't help noticing how it filled his chest—how he didn't look so broken anymore. Focus, he told himself, stop thinking like that—that's what got you into trouble in the first place, God, stop _thinking_ \--

John licked his lips and Rodney froze. "What you wanted," John said, almost inaudibly. "Was it something like this?"

And leaned in. And brushed his lips over Rodney's, impossibly gently, closing his eyes.

Rodney was gobsmacked, but he wasn't an idiot; he kissed John back.

And within about two minutes, John had pushed him back onto the bed. Rodney went willingly, squirming his way back onto the mattress just as John climbed over him.

"I thought it was my fault," John said, kneeling and reaching behind his neck to twist his shirt off over his head. "And you were going to figure it out any second now." His dog tags gleamed against his chest, dangling over Rodney when John lowered his body and held himself up on absurdly perfect arms.

"I wasn't, actually," Rodney said, skimming his hands over John's pecs, which—gratifyingly—made John shiver. "I had no idea."

"Obviously," John said, kissing him again. Rodney's words were lost in the press of John's body against his own.

They settled on their sides, bodies loosely intertwined, exploring each other's mouths. Rubbing against each other in a leisurely way.

But then John worked his left hand between them and took hold of Rodney's dick. After the first stroke Rodney was sighing into John's mouth, breaking away to gasp for air.

John's fingers were long and steady. Those hands could fly a chopper, fire a gun, make sticks spin like firecrackers, so he shouldn't be surprised that they could do this, too—work his body as though John already knew how to drive him wild, make him beg, shameless and hungry.

It seemed dangerously possible that the next time he saw John's hands in action—eating, fighting, turning things on by mere touch—he might embarrass himself. Because oh, God, what John's hands were doing to him --

"I guess you like that," John murmured, unnecessarily, sounding smug. His grip tightened and Rodney moaned.

"Shhh," John whispered, capturing his mouth again.

Right. God. Quiet, they had to be quiet. The only other people in the inn capable of making sound were Ronon and Teyla, who were right down the hall. And the walls were probably paper-thin, because who needed soundproofing on a planet like this?

Somehow the prospect of being overheard by Ronon and Teyla ratcheted Rodney's arousal even higher. He thrust up, whimpering into John's mouth, desperate to come, desperate not to come yet.

But then John was pushing against his thigh, rubbing himself against Rodney, and their struggle got wilder, until John's hand lost its rhythm. He was getting off on Rodney's body. He was close to coming too. The hot splash of John's orgasm, the inadvertent clench of his fist, brought Rodney right along for the ride.

* * *

Breakfast was silent, but it felt completely different than dinner had. John was smiling a private little smile, which made Rodney want to whoop. There was coffee, and weird little triangular pastries filled with some kind of pink paste that smelled like lavendar.

And then a few dozen Thakians arrived with Talan, and all of them walked in silent procession to the jumper site. They put their hands on the jumper, and just like that it rose about two feet into the air and stayed there, not even wobbling.

"Damn," Ronon said.

"That's a neat trick," John said, leaning against a tree.

Rodney schooled himself not to look at John's body, to focus on the damaged bits of the jumper instead, and once the repairs were made they crawled slowly toward the gate. Easy as could be.

"One thing I can't figure out," John said, as they motored through the air.

"Why they're still farming by hand if they can move things with their brains?" Rodney was still chewing on that one, too.

"They may regard work as a form of meditation," Teyla said. "Among the Athosians there are those who choose labor over the work of the mind because its repetition offers an opportunity for spiritual practice."

"You think these people are trying to ascend?" John leaned back, the jumper on auto-pilot.

"Is everyone in this galaxy fixated on ascension?" Rodney asked.

"Not me," Ronon said.

"Me, neither." John.

"Kind of nice having a body," Rodney said, and flushed hot, and quickly changed the subject. "Dialing the gate now."

They landed the jumper inside the gateroom. It was a little wobbly, but it managed. Rodney wondered whether it was relieved to be home.

"I'm glad to see all of you," Elizabeth said, warmly, as they clambered out.

"We are glad to be back," Teyla agreed.

"Wasn't so bad," Ronon said, shrugging.

"You'd probably like some time to rest, but are you up for a briefing first?"

"Sure, no problem," John said. "McKay —"

"Actually, is needed in the lab, if you don't mind," Radek chimed in. "While you were gone, we discovered something very interesting in one of the corridors off of the northwest pier —"

Everyone looked at Rodney. "What? Fine," he said, because that was what he was supposed to say.

As Elizabeth led the rest of the team into the briefing room, he felt oddly bereft. John didn't look back.

* * *

"This is crazy," Rodney said to himself, aloud. He stood up and walked two steps toward his door, then stopped. Turned around. Sat back down.

He was terrible at this. How had he not remembered that he was terrible at this?

He wanted to go find John. He felt anxious, twitchy, weird about being alone. As the minutes ticked by, it was starting to feel like he had dreamed the whole ridiculous thing—planet of the telepaths, blue oxen, sex with John.

Sex with John. God, he wanted to pin John to the wall and kiss him until they were both breathless. And then maybe suck his dick. Or just rub up against him until everything exploded.

Except he wasn't sure whether he was supposed to. What message did it send if he went and knocked on John's door? Was he supposed to be suave, to be playing hard to get?

But he'd never been any good at that stuff. Figuring out those implications was a waste of processor time; he didn't know how to do it. Cadman had been right. He was a disaster at dating.

"I should just go," he said, to the room, and stood up again. He'd walked three resolute paces toward the door when it chimed and he jumped halfway out of his skin.

"Rodney?" John's voice, through the door.

Shit. It was him. Rodney waved his hand over the doorframe and it opened, and Rodney opened his mouth and forgot what he was going to say.

John had just showered. His hair was wet and standing up on end, and he smelled amazing. _He did that for me_, Rodney thought, and every neuron in his body started to sizzle and spark.

"You gonna let me in?"

"What? Right, yes," Rodney said, stepping aside, and the door closed behind John as he entered.

"I was," Rodney started. Took a breath. Started again. "I was going to come find you."

"You're freaking out," John observed.

"I am not!" Hotly.

John sat down on the edge of his bed. It was such an oddly intimate gesture that it took Rodney's breath away. "Maybe you should be," John said, after a moment. "I'm not very good at—actually, I'm terrible at this."

The admission changed Rodney's footing. "I wouldn't say that," he said, suddenly the confident one.

"Have you met me?" John sounded tired.

"I think you're very good at this."

"Rodney, I'm —"

"Very good," Rodney repeated, and the memory brought a bright flush to his face, but he didn't look away.

John gave a little laugh, like he couldn't help it. "That was all right, huh?"

"'All right'?" Rodney repeated, incredulous.

And then, possessed by some kind of crazy self-assurance he could have sworn he'd never actually felt, he knelt in front of John and pushed his knees apart.

"Rodney, you —"

He didn't let John finish the sentence. "Shut up," he said, and bent to mouth John through his trousers.

"Jesus," John muttered, his legs falling open. He was hard already, Rodney could feel it, and the realization made him giddy.

"Lie back," Rodney said, and John did.

He unbuttoned and unzipped—but then the angle was all wrong. "Move," he said, pushing, and John did, and he yanked John's pants halfway down his thighs and then, oh, _finally_, took John into his mouth.

John gasped and pushed forward insistently, his hands clenching Rodney's bedspread. Like he was bracing himself, or holding himself back. And then Rodney tugged John's trousers the rest of the way off, and pushed his knees up to his chest, and bent to press his tongue --

"You don't have to," John said, his voice thick, but then he moaned, as if despite himself. His inarticulate sounds made Rodney exult.

"I'm aware of that," Rodney said. "Believe me, this is my idea of a good time," and gulped a deep breath and went to work again.

"Fuck," John said, fervently, and came.

When Rodney kneeled up, the sight before him—John sprawled on his bed, his now-soft cock lying across the crease of his thigh—was like a still from his own personal porn movie. He reached down to press a quick hand to the base of his dick, which already ached with want.

John opened his eyes. Something in Rodney's face made him grin, slow and dirty, full of intent. "Get those clothes off," he said, and Rodney complied.

Though it was odd, being on the receiving end of that kind of appraising stare, and for half a second Rodney's bravado wavered. "I'm—let me get that light," he said, suddenly anxious.

"Hell, no," John said, and yanked him onto the bed.

Kissing was good. Kissing was very good. Kissing was a thing he'd always been good at, and that knowledge relaxed him—enough that the feel of John's hand stroking down his belly only barely tickled, and the grasp of his hand on Rodney's cock made Rodney sigh happily. A guy could get used to this.

"Hm," John said, twisting his hand a little, and Rodney gasped. "I think I see experimentation in my future."

"Experimentation?" Rodney managed, already a little breathless. Even in his imagination, John had never looked at him in quite this way. Hungry and dirty and sweet all at once.

"Walls here are pretty soundproof," John noted, as though this were an ordinary conversation for them to be having. How's work? Oh, fine, nothing much going on, and by the way, did you know your bedroom is soundproof? The implications made Rodney shudder beneath John's hands.

John rubbed against him and licked a line along his neck, and Rodney moaned a little.

"Huh, you have a neck thing," John said, apparently filing that away for future reference, and did it again. Rodney bit his lip and thought about hockey scores and tried not to come.

But his resolve was shattered when John murmured, "How long do we have to go out before I can ask you to fuck me?"

Rodney groaned, startled into an intense and sudden climax, spilling all over his belly and John's hand.

They lay there for a while and Rodney's brain started slowly spinning again. It shorted out every time he thought about the end of that sentence, so he poked at the first part. "'Go out'?"

He felt John shrug beside him. "Sure. Isn't that what we're doing? We go offworld all the time."

"You'd call that _dating_?"

John laughed. "I told you I was terrible at this."

"Not very long," Rodney admitted.

"Really?"

"Are you kidding me?"

"It's not everybody's idea of a good time," John said, sounding affronted.

"You really are insane, you know that?"

"Right, McKay, insult me, that's the way to a man's heart."

Rodney felt like his own heart might burst out of his chest. "It's the thought that counts," he pointed out, and John yawned and pulled him closer.

"As long as you're thinking about me," John murmured, sleepily, and closed his eyes.


End file.
